Personal Oblivion
by EvenAtMyDarkest
Summary: Dee Dee knows she has to say something. Set during Midnight, after the return of the Crusader 50.


_I do not own Doctor Who, I do not own Midnight, I do not own the Doctor, I do not own the lovely one-off character Dee Dee or any of the not-as-lovely one-off characters here mentioned, I own basically nothing except for the exact combination of the 26 letters in the Latin alphabet which you, wonderful reader, are about to (hopefully) enjoy._

I have never felt as guilty and horrible and lethargic as I do now. I'm ashamed that I wasn't able to stop them, and especially for telling them in the first place that they would have six seconds of safety after opening the air lock—if I had just _shut up_ , they might have dropped the discussion of throwing Sky out and it all never would have happened. I'm angry, so, so angry at the professor, a man who I respected and who I thought respected me. Now I know he doesn't. And I'm seriously considering forgetting him and finding someone who does, or else just going back home to my cat and my books. All I want right now is to curl up in bed and sleep for a year.

I can't take my eyes off the Doctor, the man who was right all along and who they tried to kill. He was confident because he really _did_ know what he was talking about. He was trying to protect us. His reward? Having his voice, his very essence stolen from him and being the victim of attempted murder. So helpless. I can tell he isn't used to being helpless.

He's staring at something the rest of us can't see, just like he's been doing for the last several minutes, excluding his query about the hostess's name. That didn't help. It just added to my guilt. None of us knew.

"The hostess… what was her name?"

Apart from his repeated panting "It's gone, it's gone, it's gone" immediately after he was released, those were the only words he's uttered since. He sounded bone-weary. And none of us had an answer for him.

None of us make eye contact as we file out of the Crusader 50. The Doctor is walking with a slight but noticeable limp. He stumbles just a bit with every step, as if he's forgotten briefly how to walk. I try to suppress tears of shame and regret. He looks so… so…

Everyone hurries away after we leave the vessel. I exchange a brief glance with Professor Hobbes, telling him that no, I won't be accompanying him back to our room just yet. He gives a quick bob of the head and hurries off. No one even wants to look at the Doctor. Jethro is the only exception I've seen. He had a very brief exchange with the Doctor before his parents pulled him away. And now it's just us.

I try to find the word to describe how he looks. His shoulders are slumped, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his expression utterly exhausted. But he meets my eyes.

"Doctor," I start, and then don't know what to say, but I've got to say _something_. He stares at me, waiting, his eyes far older than they should be. "I… I'm sorry."

He shakes his head once, and says, "Don't."

I freeze, desperately hoping that doesn't mean that he's throwing my offer of an apology back in my face, but he continues in a tired voice, "Don't worry about it, Dee." He swallows, and I realize that he's putting an unusual amount of effort into his words. "You tried. Thank you."

I hesitate, not sure how to take this. After a moment I ask, "Are you going to be all right?"

He looks at me, into me. I wasn't expecting the pause to be this long. "I'm tough. I'll be fine, trust me."

I take a long look at him, and I struggle to come to terms with what I see in his eyes. He seems so _old_. But he isn't. But he is. He speaks like a seasoned soldier, like he's seen so much that what we just went through didn't mean a lot anymore. Then again, that was before that creature stole his voice. I saw his face, as they were hauling him towards the door to end his life. He was terrified. But so was I, so I did nothing.

And now he's…

I nod, slowly.

The expression on his face seems to me like he understands exactly what I was thinking. Maybe I didn't make it that difficult. He moves like he's about to straighten up, stand more erect, but stops as if deciding it doesn't matter.

I almost wonder if he's even capable of holding anything to matter anymore.

I've seen exhaustion before. Especially over the past few years, I got good at spotting it in my fellow students—the day of a big test, I could see all the hours they'd spent awake, studying, weighing them down. The exhaustion I see in the Doctor doesn't show up in dark shadows under his eyes, but his shoulders sag, and he sways slightly on his feet, and I can just feel how _desperately_ he wants to lie down and sleep right where he stands.

"I'll leave you then," I say quietly, and he nods. He turns, and starts to walk away. His steps are slow and unsteady, and he's dragging his feet. He didn't drag them before.

I, too, turn and begin my trek to… I don't know. Not back to the room, not yet. I'm dragging my feet as well, but it doesn't mean the same thing as it does with him.

Finally I come up with the word I was looking for.

He's broken.

But at once I realize it's far too mild a word. He's _crushed_ , shattered, fatigued, weary. He's been invaded in ways I never imagined and the fact that he survived it doesn't seem to be any comfort to him.

I stop, and turn my head back, and as he limps away from me I can see him travelling straight into oblivion. Silence. That's what enveloped us back in that tiny ship after the hostess and Mrs. Silvestry vanished in a flash of horrible blinding light, what covered us like a thick and suffocating blanket.

He saved our lives and we gave him silence.

It's quite obvious he's used to it. Used to saving lives is what I zero in on at first. I've never saved anyone in my life. Closest I've come was calling that kid's parents, when I was babysitting and she broke her arm. I bet Professor Hobbes never saved anyone in his whole life. Or Val, or Biff, or Jethro.

He's used to saving lives, and receiving absolutely nothing in return. No reward, no acknowledgement, and certainly no gratitude. Beyond that, he's used to being scorned. Hated. Accused.

"Doctor," and the word is out of my mouth before I know what's going to follow it.

He stops and turns.

He looks _so old._

I freeze. I know what I have to say, I just wish it didn't sound so lame.

"Thank you."

I receive no obvious reaction. His mouth seems to curve in the barest hint of a smile, but I know it's just a mask. He's showing tremendous strength to fake even that.

He says nothing. I watch as he walks off, down the perfect white pathway to the rooms. In silence.


End file.
